


Five Millennia Of Irksome Youth

by MrEvilside



Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard
Genre: Age Difference, Character Study, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:58:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1414234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrEvilside/pseuds/MrEvilside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his life, Loki has gone through several radical changes—namely, multiple deaths—but one thing is still the same.<br/>That thing is Tony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Millennia Of Irksome Youth

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to qwanderer for the beta-reading!

As both a superhero and a genius, Tony Stark has seen _things_. Most of them had been unpleasant, some just annoying; every single one of them, however, had been no less than unbelievable.

Thus, Tony Stark is no easy man to surprise, not for anyone.

Except Loki is not _anyone_ , of course.

So, when the inventor winds an arm around the currently-way-too-young-for-his-own-good God of Mischief’s slim waist tentatively and presses a cautious kiss against the back of his shoulder, and Loki stays still instead of pushing him away like—like _old Loki_ would do, the man is no less than utterly shocked.

He doesn’t move, savoring the Liesmith’s smooth skin and inhaling the scent of his shampoo—taking all he can while this lasts, whatever it is. Loki doesn’t move either, he just breathes—calmly, in and out; Tony can feel his chest heave and his heart pound regularly under his touch.

“Uhm… Loki?” The inventor’s voice comes out muffled and uncertain; his teeth gently scrape the young god’s back.

“Mph?”

“Are you… okay?”

When the Liesmith replies, the black hair on the nape of his neck tickles the man’s nose. “Do I look like I’m not?” His tone is light, playful derision lying just underneath the surface, but Tony catches it anyway, because he’s smart that way—that’s why Loki is in his bed, after all.

“It’s just that you look too much like you are.” The inventor pauses, realizes that he sounds like he’s _complaining_ , and quickly adds: “I mean, it’s unusual. You weren’t much of a cuddler… back then.”

He still doesn’t know if he’s allowed to talk about _old Loki_ , or how to. Actually, there’s a great many things he _still_ doesn’t know about Loki, which is what makes Loki so attractive. As any man, Tony fears the unknown; though, as himself, he’s inevitably drawn to it.

“I thought you’d like this better.” The inventor doesn’t need to see him to know that the young god is arching an eyebrow.

“Of course I do,” the man scoffs, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Much better than getting a mighty kick _you know where_ because I dared to touch His Majesty after sex, in any case.”

The Liesmith steers slowly in his embrace, although he doesn’t escape from it yet— _how long before the inevitable, though?_ —and lets out a low, rich chuckle. “Oh, I wouldn’t hit you _there_ ,” he says, amused, like he actually _considered_ that option. “I don’t usually spoil my own fun.”

Tony chooses to ignore that because, _please_ , he’s not going to get all worked up because of a _something_ teen-year-old talking about him like a _sex toy_. He’s thirty-six and way too _Iron Man_ for that. “Stop playing dumb, princess, you know what I’m trying to say. You changed a lot.” He shrugs casually to point out that it doesn’t bother him. “I think it’s just legitimate to wonder why.”

At that, Loki rolls on his other side in order to face him with a frown. “You _really_ don’t like the way I changed, do you?”

If it wasn’t _Loki_ , the inventor would have suspected that the young god was _genuinely concerned_. Which just couldn’t be, if anything because Loki doesn’t know that “genuine” is a word.

“It’s not that I don’t like it, but it’s so different.” Seriously, the man already knows how poor his vocabulary sounds, even without the Liesmith casting a mocking glance at him. “I need some time to adjust to it, and, well, you can’t blame me for having questions. First you’re all, you know,” he makes a vague gesture with his free hand, “ _adult_ and magick-y and stuff, then you’re an eleven-year-old with a weird-looking bird on his—”

“Magpie.” All of a sudden, Loki’s face is dark, as if it actually matters, and Tony can’t find it in himself to make a snarky remark about that. “It was a magpie.”

“Okay.” The inventor lifts his hands up in a placating way. “A magpie, whatever. My point is, you went through an entire lifespan in something like a few months, it’s obvious that it kind of throws me off. I’m human, you know.”

The young good looks away from him, but not quickly enough to hide from him the strange mixture of emotions that makes his eyes seem like emerald kaleidoscopes. “Yes,” he mutters, “I know.”

The man, instead, doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know what’s wrong—what he did wrong—or how to fix it, which gets on his nerves, because he may not be good at not doing things wrong, but he’s way better at fixing them, if only people—namely, _Loki_ —would let him. “Listen.” He sighs and presses his forehead against the Liesmith’s, holding him by his shoulders. “It’s fine. You don’t want to talk about it? Okay. It’s odd, but I can live with it, as long as you’re still you and not, say, Green Goblin in disguise. Now, _that_ wouldn’t be fine at all.”

His attempt at dissipating the sudden tension between them brings a reluctant grin to Loki’s lips, but his tone is still strange when he asks: “And how are you so sure that I’m myself?”

“You’re making this hard on purpose now.”

The young god sends him an innocent look that reminds the inventor so much of _old Loki_ that he’s this close to saying it out loud—except he doesn’t. He just shrugs mentally and thinks, _Some things never change_. And maybe it’s for the better, especially for the sake of his sanity.

“I honestly swear that I mean no hardship.” The Liesmith smirks and unexpectedly sneaks one leg between Tony’s, his knee teasing the inventor’s groin all of a sudden.

The man gasps and sees his wide eyes reflected in Loki’s wicked ones. “I oh so hate you.”

“See? I told you you didn’t like me.” But the young god is laughing now, his face is clearer and his words a lot less heavy, even though there’s still darkness lingering inside him. That, though, will never go away, and Tony has long since learned to ignore it and enjoy the small shards of brightness instead.

The inventor shifts warily, trying to find a more comfortable position despite his disadvantage, but the Liesmith only moves his knee accordingly. The man inhales sharply, but forces himself to exhale deeply, as though he’s perfectly in control—despite both of them knowing he’s not. He’s never in control, when it comes to Loki.

The problem is, he likes that, too.

“You’re not doing much for me to like you better,” Tony murmurs, because if he speaks louder he’s afraid he’d give away how much the young god is affecting him—as if it wasn’t already obvious.

“Why?” The Liesmith has even the gall to pout, the little fucker. “What did I do so wrong?”

Tony scoffs and doesn’t bother even considering an answer to that question. He focuses on a wisp of black hair staining Loki’s white shoulder instead, twirling it around his index finger, and mumbles absent-mindedly, “You’re way too young to be this attractive, you know? It makes me feel filthy.”

Taken aback by the sudden change of subject, at first all the young god does in reaction is blink rapidly, then he bursts into genuine laughter. “I’m still more than five millennia older than you.”

The inventor furrows his brow. “Are you saying that I look old? ‘Cause that doesn’t help.”

The Liesmith is still smirking widely as he gradually reduces the distance between their faces until their lips are bare inches apart. He presses both his palms flat against the man’s chest, pushes him onto his back, and climbs on top of him, his long legs around Tony’s sides, their hips connected as though they were one and the same.

The only difference is, Loki happens to lack the filter between _still acceptable_ and _bat-shit crazy_ that the Ten Rings practically hammered into the inventor’s head— _well, chest_.

The man groans, the young god grins and bends over him, his tongue torturously slow as it licks his lips—deliciously soft, thin, skilled lips. _Fuck_ , Tony thinks, eyes trained on that sinful mouth like they’re glued or something. _I’m so pathetic._

“Does this mean that I should stop doing such things,” the young god wriggles his eyebrows suggestively at their position, “in order to preserve your honor?”

He makes to move away from him, but the man suddenly reaches out and grabs him by his wrist, keeping him in place. “Now, who’s ever mentioned _honor_? I don’t even know what that means. If you want to talk about honor, ask your brother.” He casts the Liesmith a stern look and lifts his index finger. “Here,” he marks every syllable like he wants to engrave them into Loki’s skin, “we talk about fun.”

“Hm.” The young god winds his arms around the inventor’s neck, tilts his head to the side and whispers against his lips: “Sounds more like me.”

Deep inside himself, Tony knows he’s fucked, but in front of that smile he couldn’t care less.


End file.
